I'm Low on Gas and You Need a Jacket

“Bethany.”

“Bethany.”

“Bethany seriously.”

She didn’t turn her glare on me, but she did finally take her filthy feet off of my dashboard. Another minute of near silence passed. The only sound was the tarmac under my car and the cars around us. That, and the occasional huffing sound coming from Bethany’s side of the car. After a particularly loud exhale, I’d heard enough of it.

“Alright. No more of this shit. You fucked up and you’re mad at me?” Another huff was my response. “Well fuck you too. You went out and got drunk. You danced on fucking tables and got kicked out of the club and then your hotel. You lost your shoes. What exactly in that night of fuckery did I do?”

At first it seemed she wasn’t going to reply, again. “You got mad when I called you for a ride.”

“Well, fuck, of course I did. You disappear after I try to have an adult conversation with you, and then call me at five am the next day asking me for a ride. You didn’t answer your phone or your texts, and you just vanished. Of course I was mad when you called. Not because you asked for a ride, but because you’d disappeared!”

She huffed. Again.

I grimaced. “How did you even get kicked out of your hotel?”

She looked at my pointedly, and then gestured to herself. Ripped jeans and a purple lacy strapped bra. “I lost my shirt and showed up at four am like this.” Her tone implied that I somehow should have known that that was what had happened.

I narrowed my eyes. “You don’t remember how you lost it?”

“Well I do now. But when they were asking me to put clothes on before I walked through their lobby I didn’t.” Again with the tone. I waved my hand in a vague gesture for her to keep talking. She did the huff again. “I took it off when I was on the tables at Jack of Spades.”

“Jesus Christ, Bethany. You went out and got that drunk because I was trying to talk to you about something remotely adult-like?”

Now that glare was on me, nearly searing my flesh. “No. I went out and got that drunk because you are trying to tie me down and I told you at the start of this relation-shit that I didn’t want a boyfriend or a ship of any sort or anything! Then suddenly you were my boyfriend. Then suddenly we were meeting parents. Then suddenly you were throwing out words like ‘move in’ and ‘renters insurance’ and THAT’S BEING IN A RELATIONSHIP.” She ended her rant by yelling. She had slowly started to sit up and lean forward as she spoke, voice raising to a higher pitch than a human should have been able to hear.

“Fuck, Beth. It’s been two years. You can’t just suddenly freak out on me about being in a relationship after two years? Besides, you’re already over at my place nearly all the time, so I figured you’d want to move in.” I started to shrug, then just moved into a stretch of sorts.

She huffed. I didn’t speak again.

Another huff.

Then I saw her start to shiver. I exited the highway, pulling into a gas station. I reached into my backseat and handed her one of my hoodies. She threw it back at me. “Bethany, fucking hell, what?!”

“I don’t need your damned jackets. I am not your girlfriend.”

“You are my girlfriend. You have been for two years. Now quit being such a child and put it on.” She turned to face the window. “Bethany!”

“Can you just drive?”

“I’m low on gas and you need a jacket. Now put the damned thing on.” I shoved it at her again, then slammed the door on my way out of the car. When I got back in after putting as little gas in as possible, she had the hoodie on.

“Let’s just go home.” She said softly.

So I drove.